


angel eyes

by kendreys



Category: GOT7
Genre: Beaches, Filipino Character, Local Boy Mark Tuan, Mild Language, Non-Famous Mark Tuan, Other, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Summer, Summer Love, Summer Romance, Summer Vacation, contemporary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kendreys/pseuds/kendreys
Summary: complete angel eyes playlist ishere.things to know:nanay: mother in tagalogkuya: a form of respect for an older male ~5-10 yearstol: meaning sibling in tagalog. is used in lieu of ate/kuya for sake of gender neutrality. is still considered respectful.
Relationships: Mark Tuan & Reader, Mark Tuan & You, Mark Tuan/Reader, Mark Tuan/You





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> complete angel eyes playlist is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/07Kz0iGq69GdKuPRsbG92B?si=2kZtHmqSROu8jvH-aCCHeg).
> 
> things to know: 
> 
> nanay: mother in tagalog  
> kuya: a form of respect for an older male ~5-10 years   
> tol: meaning sibling in tagalog. is used in lieu of ate/kuya for sake of gender neutrality. is still considered respectful.

**_“don’t look too deep into those angel eyes.”_ **

* * *

“My love, why don’t you go to the beach?” Your mom mused, putting Tupperware back in the already overflowing cabinet of even  _ more _ Tupperware, silently making a note to ask her mother where she acquired all of this Tupperware. You were organizing the boxes labeled ‘bathroom’, ‘kitchen’, ‘kitchen cont.’, dug out of the basement’s crawlspace. Your things were already tucked neatly in your room, nothing in suitcases, all properly folded or hung in the dresser and closet respectively. When your grandmother decided to move back to her home country where her siblings resided, she left her house of sixty years to your mother. This came as a surprise, as your grandmother silently favored your mother’s younger brother, Uncle Luke, born a whopping sixteen years later, born to her second husband, much kinder than the first, acting as a better father to your mother than hers ever did. So when Grandma told your mother the house was hers, well, her jaw dropped and so did Luke’s. Uncle Luke was only ten years your senior, acting more as your surrogate older brother, but engaged in an enchanted bachelor lifestyle, introducing new aunts left and right, finally teaching you to only learn their names in the moment and forget later. Now going into your final year of undergrad, your uncle was just over thirty, and showed promise of changing his ways. His name was Richard, a few years Uncle Luke’s senior, and it came a shock on both sides of their union. Your grandmother made it abundantly clear she loves Richard, even if she’s 60% sure Richard is just Uncle Luke’s sugar daddy. Your mother was awestruck, wondering where the mother she knew was, until only a few moments later her mother started to grill her on how to clean the house, and how everything should be organized. There’s Grandma.

“Maybe,” you respond, looking for a reason to not, starting with outside to no avail. It was a perfect day. There was a slight breeze, but nothing getting into the water wouldn’t fix. 

She knows, “It’s a beautiful day, Y/N. Go out,” she manages to get the cabinet full of Tupperware closed and comes over to you,, putting her hand on your shoulder, motioning for you to stand. She puts her hand on your face, “Get some sun. You need it,” she crinkles her nose, wrapping her arms around you, squeezing you on the sides because she knows you’re ticklish.

You let out a laugh, pushing at her, her grasp unwavering, “Fine! Fine! I’ll go!”

She lets go, laughing too, her hand on your head, scuffing your hair, “Thank you!” She elongates the you, shooing you to go.

“I need to change!”

“Then go change!”

You start to walk down the hall, but turn, peeking your head into the kitchen, hands on the wall, “Nanay is coming next week, right?”

Your mother rolls her eyes, “Yes, yes, Nanay should be here next week or the next, she’s your favorite mom we get it!”

You stick your tongue out, “She doesn’t squeeze me!”

Like instinct, your mother grabs a washcloth and throws it in your direction, you holler, and run upstairs to get changed.

* * *

Mom’s wrong and she knows it. Nanay is your other mom, teaching you and your siblings to call her Nanay, because she’s from the Philippines and it’s less confusing than mom and mom. Nanay had a son before she met Mom, Kuya Ian who was seven years your senior, born to her college sweetheart, well before she figured out she was gay. Growing up, Kuya moved in with you when you were around the age of eight, that’s when he was approved to come to the States, after a nasty battle of custody with his dad. Kuya’s dad was really abusive, and hated Nanay for marrying your mom, so coming to the U.S was Kuya’s salvation. He went on to go to and is now a lawyer in L.A. You made a mental note to text him later. Your comprehension of Tagalog was decent, but Nanay never failed to tease yours or Mom’s accent. Anna, your little sister by four years, somehow had a perfect Filipino accent, but couldn’t write Tagalog to save her life. Anna still has school, but as soon as she’s done, she has cheer camp, and Nanay will come, work laptop in tow. Two. You make a mental note to text Kuya,  _ and _ Nanay. You FaceTimed Anna on the way to the house. 

You slip on your swimsuit and look in the mirror before you leave. Your shoulders face inward. You look like you’re terrified and your body doesn’t deny that stipulation. Ever since…  _ it  _ happened the idea of doing anything for fun became a distant memory. You throw on your oversized UCLA sweatshirt you stole from Kuya to compensate and head downstairs. Mom moved on to the plates and bowls, not even blinking when you call, “Mom I’m leaving!”

“Love you,” she responded monotonously, trying to remember the specific color palette her mother dictated. 

Your mother’s childhood bike was leaned up against the garage, and you grabbed the handlebars, walking the bike to the bottom of the driveway, and getting on to go to the beach. Your Uncle Luke told you you had to go to the cliffs, claiming it was a rite of passage in the Y/L/N family. You followed his directions, turn at the end of the road, bike next to the beach until you see the bell tower of the church, then take a sharp right, and it’ll be uphill from there. You spot a baby cliff, lovingly labeled as ‘“Baby’s First Plunge’. Uncle Luke told you only that one had a name, and you had to take a picture with it. Before taking off your sweatshirt, you take out your phone, throwing up a peace sign, and take a selfie immediately texting it to the family group chat, more specifically the whole family group chat, meaning Kuya, Anna, Mom, Nanay, and Uncle Luke was in it.

**Y/N:** [picture]

_ Mom loved your image. _

**Mom:** be careful anak!

**Uncle Luke:** you got this

**Anna:** be careful tol!!

You strip, your sweatshirt now clinging to the slight sweat you worked up biking up the hill. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t. You were cleared before you came out here. It doesn’t hurt. It’s phantom pain. Phantom pain, when something hurts in area of loss. 

You roll your shoulders forward. Again.

And again.

Back..

And again.

You were okay. You start tracing your thigh. Haphazardly at first. Trying to feel as much of your skin as humanly possible. You stop your nails from digging in. 

_ No need to inflict pain _ , you remind yourself. 

Your tracing becomes more uniform. More organized. A box. Over and over itself.

Inhale.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Hold. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

Exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Pause.

One. 

Two.

Three. 

Four.

You keep your eyes closed. You like how the sun shines on your eyelids, keeping you warm, and it’s not black, but almost red orange. It’s warmth. It’s comforting. The sun warms your whole body. It tingles. Your fingers. Your feet. Even your shoulder starts to calm down. 

You take a deep breath and take the plunge.

It’s a fifteen foot drop at most. You weren’t a diver, but you knew the basics, so the water didn’t fight you back when you dropped. It was cold, your body coming into itself to restore heat, but you felt like you were home. You stayed underwater. Closed your eyes. Melt into the ocean. Just for a moment. A few moments more. Underwater is quiet, it’s peace, there is no noise, there is no ripples, it is just you and the ocean floor. You can hold your breath for five minutes. You almost consider trying to meet that record. Or beat it. You haven’t practiced in awhile, but it’ll be muscle memory, your body will just know, your lungs will go back to where they once were. The ocean is endless, she could probably swallow you whole, right into her eternal abyss, and nobody would find you. Maybe you should. A minute. Two. Three. Four, five. Stretch to six.

Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, you come up for air. Calmly. Once upon a time, you would come up, gasping for air, trying to fill your lungs as much as you could, your chest heaving, wondering why you’d put your body through that in the first place. But you don’t this time. Instead your head bobs over the water, your nose making a small inhale, and you push your hair back out of your face, and gently start swimming to shore. The wind cuts through you, but your hands finally fall to your sides, and you start to go up, seeing your clothes. You pick up the sweatshirt, wrap your phone in it, and head north onto the next cliff. Uncle Luke said you’d end up loving it, and want to do another. He knows you love the ocean. You do. You won’t let anything take that away from you.

Approaching the cliff, you heard laughs. You weren’t alone, and you fight the immediate instinct to turn right around. Mom said for you to be social. Introduce yourself. Say hi. There’s three boys, all of them shirtless, two of them pushing at each other, and the third one has his hands stuffed in his pockets, laughing at the two of them. You put your things down and peer over the cliff. The drop had to have been twice the baby cliff. The fall is daunting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the two boys who were pushing each other around each run, pushing each other, jumping off. The last boy yells, “Dumbasses!” He cups his hands over his mouth, making sure they could hear him. He rolls his eyes laughing to himself, his laugh is soft, clear, not a bellow, but soft enough, maybe it’s just for him. He doesn’t even see you. He slips off his shirt, your cheeks immediately reddening, immediately directing your eyes to the ground fixating on a rock stuck in the dirt. 

“I told them not to do a cannonball,” you hear the boy say, and you almost don’t realize he’s talking to you, until you realize it’s just you and him and he’s probably not talking to himself. You look up, seeing him shirtless, almost immediately lowering your head again, but keeping it up, because that would only make it more awkward. A smile creeps up on your face, nodding your head. “I think I’m going to do a backflip,” the boy raises his arms, shifting his head side to side, stretching, letting out a much needed yawn, “You?”

“Oh I don’t think so,” you respond, coming closer to the edge of the cliff, but still keeping space between you and the stranger. You used to be able to do flips on the diving board, the rest of the team goading you on, after diving practice, when the swim and dive teams all did a free swim. You were one of the only swimmers on the team that could’ve been on the diving team, but it never sparked your curiosity. It didn’t mean you didn’t love doing backflips every now and again off the board. Eddie, the weakest link of the diving team, or at least that’s what they called him would go head to head with you on the boards. He’d beat you by a landslide, but both of you knew he was far better than you, and you liked playing along. 

“Why not?

“I don’t want to get hurt,” you respond, the lie burning your tongue, the lie softening because it isn’t a lie, you don’t want to get hurt, but the chances of you hurting yourself are slim, but the chance is still there. 

“You won’t get hurt,” the boy’s face lights up, shaking his head, light in his eyes, “Promise.” He sticks out his pinky, and you can’t help but let out a laugh relieving the tension between you, his soft laugh coming out again, but now you think it might be for you too. It’s nice. His laugh almost blends with the sea, subtle yet steady. He smiles with his eyes, his lips turned at the corners, his eyes wrinkling, his nose.

It’s absurd to have a stranger pinky promise you you won’t get hurt, because you won’t, but he doesn’t know that, oro maybe he does. You have a swimmer’s body. Or at least that’s what Nanay told you, but then again, Nanay always wanted you to be a swimmer. She got you in lessons as soon as you could walk and talk, and brought you to the pool every day in the summer, and the indoor pool at least twice a week. She was a swimmer back in the Philippines, almost got on the national team before she got pregnant with Kuya. You wonder what she would have done if she was in the U.S, where abortion was legal, or if she had more options. Would she have kept Kuya? Or would she have kept swimming? You think Kuya thinks about that too. Maybe that’s why he left even after coming to the States, maybe that’s why he went to college on the East Coast, maybe he knew he stopped her from achieving her biggest dream of all. Well, what was her biggest dream of all. 

She can’t get her biggest dream now.

You offer your pinky, “Okay,” you shake your head, still amused at the absurdity of the situation. 

“Backflip? Front flip?” Animated, he starts swinging his arms front and back, simulating how he’s gonna jump off the cliff, and turning his back toward the sea, walking back and forth, swaying his arms back and forth.

He’s trying to make you laugh. You really want to let him.

He turns towards the sea again, making swimming strokes, letting out a shout, “Woosh! Woosh!” 

You finally let him win, laughing, “I don’t know, probably a front flip.”

“Do you not know how to do a backflip?” He leans his head to the side, looking at you from the right. He has doe eyes. They’re dark, and almond, and sweet, and pure. The sun reflects off of them, making you think they’ll become light, but they’re that dark. The light glints off of the almost pure black, and it’s a sight. You’re almost staring into the eyes, he thinks you’re making really good eye contact, but you’re really just admiring how the light shines off of him. His eyes. Not him. The eyes. 

The lie rolls off your tongue, “No I don’t,” selling it with a sheepish grin, putting your hand on the back of your neck. 

He cheerily replies, “Okay! Front flip it is! Honestly I’ve been doing backflips for so long, I don’t even think I know how to do a front flip anymore.” He motions for you to join him at the edge of the cliff, his friends out of sight, swimming to shore to come back up.

You take a deep breath, but you’re calmer now. He can sense it, because he looks at you, his eyes intense, but encouraging, “Ready?” You nod.

“3,” he begins.

“2,” you say together, and he looks at you flashing you another smile, his eyebrows raising, getting ready to jump.

“1!” both of you jump, him executing a backflip, and your heart almost stops, your brain telling you to stop, don’t hurt your shoulder, back out, just jump, but-- you flip, and fall down to the sea.

He lands off to the left, and you go on the right, your flip as seamless as it once was, your shoulder a little sore, but nothing you can’t handle. Your body immediately comes up for air, less peaceful than before, but still not gasping for breath. You turn, and you’re greeted with a splash, the mystery boy pushing her hair out of her face, his mouth in a full grin, his teeth showing, water droplets collecting on his forehead. “I saw you! You nailed that flip!” He raises his hand to high five you, and you give him a soft one, when he wanted and was expecting a stronger one. You realize your mistake, and look down, embarrassed at your inability to pick up on that social cue.

He motions to the side, “This way,” and both of you swim to shore. Contrary to where his friends put their things, he walks over to a backpack placed next to the bottom of the hill leading up to the cliffs. He takes out a towel, and you expect him to dry himself or at least wrap it around, the sun has gone down a bit, and the wind is a bit chillier. 

He hands it to you, “Here,” and you’re taken aback by the gesture, but you take it to not be rude.

“Thanks,” you’re conservative with the towel, patting your shoulders and arms.

He can sense what you’re doing, because he shakes his head, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “Nah, use it. I’ll be fine.” You take his small kindness for what it is, a small kindness. You wrap the towel around yourself, letting him lead the way. He stands a few inches above you, his shoulders are smaller, his torso, coming down in sharp lines. He’s skinny, but not athletic. His frame is only thanks to his height, if he were shorter, he’d be scrawny. His backpack is half open, but its contents are few, it was only the towel, a water bottle, and what looked to be a half eaten bag of Doritos. “I always throw my backpack down here, so I can grab it when I swim to shore,” he explains, turning his head toward you almost like he can tell he’s losing you, and wants to let you know he actually wants to talk to you. You nod, making a mental note of when you come back here. 

“First time?”

His question catches you off guard, wondering if you were too obvious, if your nerves exuded off of you, or if you had nervous energy in general. Probably both. You open your mouth to respond, and it’s like he knows what you’re about to say, because he corrects himself, “On this cliff. Baby doesn’t count,” he winks, and that surprises you too. It’s a slow wink, like if you blinked, you would’ve missed it, not that winks were slow, but his was undetectable. He probably didn’t even think about it, but your heart skipped a beat, and you immediately attributed it to the adrenaline in your veins. 

“Yeah. First time,” you respond, surprised at your voice, more even and steady, almost like the flip gave you back your confidence. In a way, it did. You didn’t think you’d ever swim again, but you were determined to get to that point, you just-- didn’t think it’d be so soon. Your physical therapist told you that was good, that your age, athletic ability, physical activity levels, made you likely to have an almost full recovery. She had to include ‘almost’, because Nanay’s first question was when you could return to the swim team, and not could, but would. She wanted to call Coach with a status update, and give you conditioning exercises to be back on the team in the fall. But you knew, Mom knew, Coach knew, and you think Nanay knew too. You’d never be back where you were before. You could swim. You could even flip like you just proved to yourself.

But you’d never go back to where you were. And it hit Nanay just as hard. Of course it did. Mom never understood the swimming thing, she was a free spirit, she painted, did pottery, she was in the arts, never watched a lick of sports. She’s not an athlete. Nanay was. So she gets it. 

“Well you’re a natural,” the boy replied, the two of you now atop the hill, his friends taking swigs of what had to be beer from a six pack stuffed in one of the boy’s backpacks. 

“Thanks,” you reply returning the smile. You spot your sweatshirt, and immediately give him back the sweater, mouthing another thanks, and slip it over your head. “Well I should get going,” you rub your arm, other hand in the sweatshirt pocket, “and it looks like you should too.”

The boy closes his mouth, nodding, opening it again, “I guess you’re right.”

You start to turn, almost bowing your head, silently saying goodbye when you hear his voice, “I’m Mark!”

You turn, politely lowering your head again, “Y/N.” You start going down to your mother’s bike, holding onto one of the handlebars to sit, noticing Mark still smiling at you, what little sun almost illuminating his presence.

“See you around, Y/N.”

* * *

thanks so much for reading!  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to know: 
> 
> lolo: grandpa in tagalog  
> belo: a famous dermatologist in the philippines popularized for her ‘skin whitening’ projects. (actually was forced to use that as a child)  
> teleserye: filipino soap opera

_**you make me feel special.** _

* * *

The water pressure was good here, or at least that’s what your mother always told you. You turned on the shower, checking the temperature before slipping out of your swimsuit to let the warm water greet you. You liked taking just over lukewarm showers, Anna liked cold showers, and appropriately your whole family teased her for it, Kuya liked showers just the same as you, and Mom and Nanay liked warm and hot showers respectively. But today you took a hotter shower than usual, enough for the mirror to fog at the edges before you even went in. You usually had music on, played on your speaker, but that was in the other room, and you didn’t want to risk leaving the warmth of the bathroom. Even though Mom liked her showers hot, room temperature was always a bit colder, she hated turning on the A/C or heat until she absolutely had to, or rather when Nanay and Anna yelled at her about it. All the windows were wide open, just like her father did when she was a kid, attributing her love of the open air to all the French windows. The wind barely made it through the crack under the door, and you went in, back towards the water first, letting it cascade over your back, warming you, but also soothing it of all the ocean salt. Your mother used to tease you and call you fish as a child, because you begged to be in the pool for just another five minutes, be at the beach for just another five minutes, let you catch one more wave. Your cousins in the Philippines got a kick out of you playing at the beach with them, especially your grandparents, who let Nanay get food, or clean up, while your Lolo just stared as you played in the ocean, and you were the only one able to get him in the water again. Lolo used to be a swimmer just like Nanay, but ever since Lola passed away when Nanay was really young, he stopped swimming himself and let Nanay swim for him. He never thought he’d be in the ocean ever again, but when you visited for the family reunion at the age of six, he just couldn’t resist. 

You shampoo your hair first, slowly, massaging your head at the same time, trying to distribute all of the heat to your shoulders and the rest of your body. You rinse out the shampoo, put the conditioner in, and trim, because shaving just sounded like razor burn and you certainly weren’t in the mood for that. This was the first time in your life you didn’t instantly shave, being a swimmer kind of repulsed you from the idea of having any body hair, not for the sake of cleanliness, but instead for the sake of speed and technique. Plus, Coach would’ve reamed you if he saw any residue hair on you, and hand you a razor in front of the entire team. Maybe it’s a force of habit, but you trimmed so close you might as well have shaved. Rinsing out your conditioner, you decide to stand there for a few moments. Or maybe a few minutes more. The hot water against your back feels too good to stop. For now at least. You turn, for the water to concentrate on your chest, and it’s like nirvana. You had not been in the water for so long, and it was so sweet, but its aftertaste was poison. Your hand reaches for the knob, turning it off slowly, so the water tapers off. The room is damp, the air thick with the smell of your shampoo, and you reach for your towel hanging off the rack on the door. Patting your face first, you wrap it around your body and step out. The mirror is completely foggy, and you finally realize why Nanay takes such hot showers, or at least what you think. When the bathroom is completely fogged over, it’s almost like you never left. You can’t see your body yet, you don’t see yourself stripped bare, your skin supple and even red from the scalding hot. Maybe that makes her feel safe.

You open the door, and the summer breeze instantly chills you, hastening your step to your bedroom just down the hall. Mom was downstairs reading, and finally waved the white flag on battling the endless Tupperware, saying she had all summer to do so. Entering your room, your things were still intact, all in their respective drawers, hanging in the closet, and your bed pre-made. Stepping in the room towards the dresser to grab your pajamas is when you saw yourself. Saw your scars. Moistened by the shower, soothed by the ocean, looking sharp and clean. They healed nicely. You thank God you didn’t wear anything too revealing to the cliffs, because scars are never easy to explain nor desirable to do so. You turn your head, grabbing your lotion, knowing leaving them unmoisturized would only make them look worse, and Nanay really wanted them to be minimized. She even recommended Belo, which Mom shot down almost immediately. Belo is a famous doctor in the Philippines for making the kind of products exactly marketed to women like Nanay, women who wanted to be perceived as desirable, women who wanted to look clean, women who wanted to look like nothing bad ever touched their lives. Women that wanted to look pure, demure, or in reality: white. She said your color was beautiful, to never be ashamed of your looks, but appearances are key in swimming. She didn’t want you to look weak or vulnerable, and while scars have incredible stories, their perception is often king.

You pull on another one of Kuya’s old shirts from high school, rationed between you and Anna, when he moved away, claiming they were already yours anyway just not in name. Your shoulder starts to ache. You hear a ping. Followed by another in quick succession. You glance at the phone, placed on your dresser next to your Christmas photos from the year you turned seven, a brief family trip taken with only faint memories to recall. 

_ Two messages from Sully. _

You leave them unread. You clear the notifications, put Sully on ‘do not disturb’, remembering you want to text Kuya and make a reminder of it. By the time you text him it’ll be late, but he can read it in the morning. You put your towel on the hook behind your door, grab your phone, stick in the pocket of the sweatpants you also stole from Kuya, and make your way downstairs. The house was quiet, much quieter than you were ever used to. At least back home, even if it was just Mom home, Anna would be practicing cheer moves in her room, or on the phone with her friends, while Kuya would watch old movies on blast in his bedroom, quickly prompting Mom to get him Beats headphones for his birthday. Or when Nanay was home, she would watch her teleseyres, yelling at the TV how the lead was stupid, or lamenting about the same plot being used over and over again yet tuning into every supposed recycled plot. You took her word for it, because you stopped watching teleseryes a long time ago, mostly only a tool for learning Tagalog, and once you got the hang of it, you soon got sick of the melodramatic themes and theatrical dialogue. 

Contrary to what you thought, Mom wasn’t reading, instead she stood in the kitchen, quiet, one hand holding her phone, the other resting on her belly, her brow furrowed, worry written all over her face. She was waiting for someone to pick up, because she looked at the phone, almost as if it was going to have an answer, shook her head, and tapped the ‘end call’ button. She slips the phone in her back pocket, and turns towards the cabinet, pulling out a pan.

“Who was that?” You ask, her shoulders jump, not even realizing you were there.

Even though Nanay had the genes of her father, who hasn’t aged a day in thirty years, Mom looked younger than Nanay. Nanay was only two years Mom’s senior, but Mom looked five years younger. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, probably hastenedly pulled back while she was tackling all the Tupperware, sweating over where the bowls went, and what order the cabinets were color coded. Her signs of age came in her eyes, the wrinkles deepened at the corners, her smile lines more prominent, but none surrounding her face, heart shaped, complemented by her long hair she never cut until absolutely necessary. “Oh it was just Nanay,” she puts oil in the pan, in one swift motion, grabbing the bowl of vegetables she had pre-cut probably when you were. She takes a spoon from the container in the corner of the counter, slowly putting some vegetables in the pan. “How was the beach?”

You shrug, grabbing a cup, noticing the Brita filter was low, and pass Mom to fill it, “I liked the cliff,” you purse your lips, watching the tap water stream, filling up the jug, passing through the filter. You turn off the tap in one swift motion, pour water into your cup, bring it to your lips, while placing the pitcher back into the fridge, closing the fridge with your hip. You lean against the fridge, raising your eyebrows at Mom, your eyes animated, drinking the water. Nanay didn’t usually have cold water in the house, she always preferred room temperature water, and assumed everyone felt the same. You could never get over how she didn’t like cold water when she grew up in extreme heat and must’ve loved the treat of ice cold water, but she always countered with the fact it would never be as hot as the Philippines. Thus room temperature water it was. Mom put all the vegetables in the pan, stirring them around, to make sure they’re covered in oil, just like you like it. She grabs the garlic, generously covering all of them, a new condiment she added to her repertoire, symbiotic with her love of anything salty or garlicy. You gently ask, “You talk to her today?”

Mom shakes her head, keeping a smile on her face, “Not yet. She’s really busy, Anna told me she had a migraine, and you know she just got back from Berlin the other day. She gets really bad jet lag, you know.”

You almost open your mouth to counter that Nanay has been going to Berlin for years, and should be used to it now, but you know better than to question Nanay. Nanay worked really hard, she had Kuya young, but came to the States, went to UCLA, and started working for her company and worked herself up to VP while still learning English. She gave up her swim career for Kuya, and any hopes of coaching when she met Mom. Mom was the artsy type, she was always free, but Nanay was stability, and was so fixed, they gave what the other so desperately needed. And even though Nanay’s not here right now, she’ll be here later. She promised. She’s busy, but that doesn’t mean she loves you any less, she may be six hours ahead, but she’ll still text you ‘I love you’, and send a calendar invite when she can FaceTime, and sends birthday postcards from wherever she stayed. You kept the one she sent from Hong Kong for your thirteenth birthday, and she brought treats on her way home, even though that was when you got your braces off, but she promised milkshakes for a week. So you don’t say anything, because anything you would’ve said would’ve been rationalized anyways, and then you’d feel bad, and so would Mom. You reply, “Oh yeah. I’ll try texting her tomorrow,” you remember your note, “Oh I need to text Kuya.” You pull your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it, typing in Kuya, and text him an update.

**Y/N:** hey, mom and i are at the house, safe and sound. have you heard from nanay? are you going to come this summer?

“What’d you say to him?” Mom was more attentive now, her shoulders lifted, even though Kuya was her stepson, she didn’t love him any less. He asked her to move him in for his senior year of college, even though he did it by himself sophomore and junior year, but wanted her there for the ‘beginning of the end’. Nanay was probably busy anyways, but Mom obliged, took time off from work, flew with him, moved him into his apartment, and saw him off. You show her the phone, and she nods, giving approval. He came into your life later, and Mom welcomed him with open arms, telling him to call her Debbie if he wanted, whatever he felt comfortable with, crying when he called her Mom when he got beat up after school in the eleventh grade. 

Nanay was in Hong Kong or Berlin, you could never remember where, but you’ll never forget Mom’s face when he called from his friend’s landline, the landline always on speaker at your house, and his small voice whispering, “Mom?”

Mom was the only one home, and replied, “Oh, babe, it’s Deb, Nanay isn’t home right now--”

“Mom? Can you come get me?” He cut her off, and that’s all she needed. She immediately asked for the address, grabbed her keys, and left the house in her slippers and UCLA sweatshirt and sweatpants. When they came home, he sat on the couch, frozen peas on his left eye, ice pack on his lip, heat pack on his abdomen, and had Mom at his side. He joined student council and was handing out flyers for their next fundraiser. Nanay taught him English growing up, much to his father’s dismay, but still had a strong accent and still fumbled over his words, and used the wrong tenses. Some guys started making fun of him, asking him to repeat what he said, trying to get him to fight back. Kuya was a gentle soul despite his father’s best efforts. He sat quietly with Mom, told her they could tell Nanay when she came back home, but didn’t want to tell her just yet.

You think they sat there for the rest of the night, Mom only getting up to make dinner, and bringing it right back to him. They didn’t even watch TV, they just sat in silence, whispering only occasionally, and all of you supported Kuya at his fundraiser the next week. They never mentioned it again, but Kuya called her Mom from then on, proudly introduced her as his mom, and Nanay as Nanay to any friends that came over and eventual girlfriends. 

“Oh I just asked him if he’s coming this summer,” you reply, grabbing the placemats from next to the wine rack, and silverware to set the table for two. Setting a table for two wasn’t foreign to you, setting for three an oddity, setting for four a commodity, and setting for five an impossibility. Kuya went to law school on the East Coast, and was always too busy to fly over for holidays, so you haven’t spent a holiday together since you were in high school. He did come to the Philippines last year to visit Nanay’s family to meet up, but you haven’t seen him since. He’s explained probably about ten times what kind of law he was doing, but all you knew was that he wasn’t a prosecutor, and you get lost after that. 

“Hopefully,” your mother chides, turning off the oven, already knowing she made mac and cheese, a childhood guilty pleasure, but it was your favorite and secretly hers. Nanay was the cook, but as she got more busy, and filled the freezer with food for you to reheat in the oven, your mother subscribed to hello fresh, and spent hours on Pinterest learning new recipes. Her mother wasn’t a good cook. She knew how to order pizza and that was about it. Mom’s father was a drunk and her mother was a fixer. She met him at the tender age of seventeen and he stood at twenty-seven. He was her boss at the burger joint she waited tables at, promised she never had to work another day in her life, and they married when she turned nineteen. Mom was only born a year later, and Grandma started saving her own money by the time Mom turned four. Grandma would never say this now, but Mom’s father was kind at first and loving, but as soon as Mom was born, his personality began to change. He was demanding. Drunk. But you don’t know him.

When Mom was seven, Grandma left, moved across the country where he could never hurt them ever again. She changed their names, Mom took hers, and they started over. Here. Grandpa, Uncle Luke’s dad came into their lives only a year and a half later. He moved before Grandma, her staying behind to tell Mom how to sort all of the Tupperware, and they live in the town where your great grandmother grew up. They’ve been married for thirty-five years and counting. You used to ask Mom if she knows where her dad is, if she’s spoken to him, and her answer is always ‘with Grandma’ or ‘he called me last night’. You always used to clarify, saying her real dad, her biological dad, but you stopped asking sophomore year of high school.

* * *

You were done with swim practice, the distinct scent of chlorine coming from every part of you, your hair, skin, clothes, even your backpack and your shoes. Mom should be used to it by now, Nanay was a swimmer and so were you, but there’s some things she can never get used to. It was her turn to pick you up, not like they took turns anyways, but Nanay just got back from Hong Kong and was going to be going to sleep at 10 in the morning for at least a week. Another thing someone can’t get used to. You set your backpack and swim bag at your feet, and give your mom a peck on the cheek. 

“How was practice?” She asks, trying to maneuver against the cones separating the parent pick up lane from incoming swim moms, yes swim moms, a very distinct social class among moms who picked up their kids from practice. A lot of the people on the team had parents who were overly supportive, but parents who had no idea, and just knew to tell their kids to ‘just keep swimming’ like Dory. You would be lying to yourself if Nanay didn’t sing that to you as a kid when she was teaching you or when you learned how to do the butterfly for the first time. 

You nod, “Good. I shaved a few seconds off my freestyle time, but I’m still trying to beat what they did last time for state,” your school went to state every year and state champ graduated last year, so you were up to be the next freestyler. You were one of the best underclassmen already, Coach had a spot on varsity for you next year if you kept it up, and you knew qualifying for state would solidify that very spot. Mom didn’t know a lick about swimming, but she did know how important it was to you and Nanay for you to get on varsity, get scouts to watch you, and hopefully swim D1. Nanay never got to swim D1, so it became your dream and responsibility. 

You traded stories of what happened at work, Mom detailing how one of her colleagues dared to propose a change to her concept for their next art piece, and how the entire team shot them down before they could even get a sentence out. You told her how hard your government test was, and how everyone in the class barely finished before the bell rang. You then remember how one of your classmates mentioned doing a family tree for one of their classes, and you turn to her, “Mom?”

Her eyes are focused on the road, both hands on the steering wheel, claiming it’s because she doesn’t trust other drivers, but really Nanay is a better driver than her and she’s extremely cautious, “Yes?”

“Do you know where your dad is?” You feel bad for asking, Grandma doesn’t even talk about him, but your curiosity overrides any remaining tact. You only found out at the age of twelve that Mom and Uncle Luke were half siblings, when Uncle Luke needed a blood transfusion, and Mom couldn’t donate because they had different blood types. It was a small comment, about how they had different dads, Uncle Luke was O+, and Mom was AB-, so they couldn’t have the same dad. The conversation ended there and you asked Nanay, but she said don’t bring it up in front of Grandma again. But it was your right, wasn’t it? Isn’t it your right to know where you came from, to know where you got your eyes, your laugh, and your disdain of strawberry ice cream? Well, that might not be it, but Mom doesn’t like strawberry ice cream and maybe her dad didn’t either. 

She doesn’t understand your question, because she cracks a smile, “With Grandma, silly. At the house,” she glances at the dashboard looking for the time, “they’re probably getting ready for bed, but I’m sure if you call, she’ll answer.” She doesn’t understand your question, and fair, she doesn’t talk about him often, but why? You know Grandma and Grandpa have been together for a really long time, but what about your  _ real _ grandpa? Maybe that’s who Anna looks like. You and Anna didn’t look much alike, but truth be told, neither of you know whose egg you came from. Mom and Nanay put both their eggs in Mom, and didn’t find out which egg took. They could’ve found out, but they never did, and they did the same for Anna too. Anna looked like Kuya, but so did you. Maybe seeing grandpa would confirm which one of you two.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t want you to find out.

You tread lightly, “No Mom… your real dad,” her jaw instantly tightens, and her eyes narrow on the road, intensely focusing on braking at the red light. 

“You mean whose blood I share?” She has a slight smirk on her face. Her demeanor shifts in an instant. You blink again, making sure what you’re seeing is real, that your eyes don’t deceive you.

“Yeah?” Your voice wavers, immediately regretting having the guts to ask.

She turns, you’re almost home now, and nods her head to you, “Do you want to find out if you’re mine or Nanay’s?”

The question catches you off guard. You almost get angry. Your fists slightly clench. Your blood stews. Why would she ask that? She’s never asked that before, well that was a lie, she did ask you when you were thirteen, and you said no, and she hasn’t asked since. You didn’t want to know. Neither did Anna. You didn’t care. Mom was Mom and Nanay was Nanay. They were both your moms, you didn’t care, so why should she care, why is she even asking this, “No!” You raise your voice. She makes a pointed look at you, and you exhale, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I mean,” you take a moment to collect yourself, “No. Why would you ask that?”

You’re near your neighborhood now. Mom passes the park that’s just outside your neighborhood, and turns at the comically large sign denoting its entrance, “You think of me as your mom, right?”

You nearly gasp, “Of course!”

Her smirk is more apparent now, “And Nanay is your mom, too, right?”

“Yeah?” You fail to see where she’s going. Mom and Nanay were different than her parents. Mom and Nanay are raising you together, mom and mom, but Grandpa is Mom’s  _ step-dad _ , not her dad dad. 

“Well your Grandpa Alpin,” the two of you stifle a laugh, the name earning him the nickname ‘Aspen’, and him always telling the story of his grandfather who named him, “is Uncle Luke’s dad by blood. He’s Grandma and Grandpa’s kid, flesh and blood. He looks like him. Has his eyes,” and she’s not lying. Uncle Luke was the spitting image of Grandpa, he found a picture of Grandpa last year in a suit, and did a side by side comparison. They were like twins. You’re nearly home now. “And I didn’t meet Grandpa until I was nine. You’re right, I had a father, and your grandma tells me I look like him.”

You’ve never met him but you can’t believe it. Grandma and Mom have the same dark eyes, teardrop shaped, and they had the same mole under their eye. Maybe they weren’t twins, but they looked a lot alike, especially when Grandma was younger. Mom’s baby pictures and Grandma’s look similar enough. You can’t imagine the face you knew your entire life resembled one you’d never met. You stay quiet, see her gently pause at the stop signs, then go on through.

“But he wasn’t my dad. He didn’t teach me to ride a bike, or play with me. It was all Grandpa Alpin.”

You were in your driveway now. Mom didn’t turn off the car. Or take off her seatbelt. Her smirk faded. Her eyes, glazed over, gazed at the house, eyes fixated on something you couldn’t place, fixated on something that wasn’t even there. Both of your seatbelts were on. The music wasn’t on. The engine hummed.

“I don’t remember his name. I can barely remember his face. The only time I can is when I look in the mirror sometimes and I remember I look like him,” she looked over at you, tucking your hair behind your ear, running her hand over your scalp, “You are my child because I am raising you and loving you like a mother should. Not because of blood or obligation, but choice. Nanay and I chose you. Just like my dad chose me.”

Tears start to form at the corners of Mom’s eyes, and she blinked them away, “So Grandpa Aspen,” she cracks the inside joke, letting out a laugh, relieving the tension, “is the only dad I’ve ever known. He’s my dad like I’m your mom.”

You were speechless.

She put her hand on the back of your head, placing a kiss on your forehead, and turned off the car, “Love you,” took off her seatbelt, and got out of the car. 

How could you ask her to denote her true father, or what you thought that would be? Grandpa Alpin was the only father she had ever known just as she and Nanay were the only parents you had ever known. You had no father, none that you’d know, only two mothers who gave you the world. Not only you, but to Anna too, and even Kuya, a teenager came into Mom’s home, and she treated him like one of her own. Your family was bound by choice, by love, by no blood, no moral obligation. Who were you to question that bond? 

You grabbed your bag and your backpack, taking off your seatbelt, opening the door slightly with your finger for the latch, then your body weight to push it open. Mom was waiting at the garage door, taking your swim bag from you, while you took off your jacket and shoes. You slung your backpack over your shoulder, while Mom went to the kitchen to get started on dishes, and you started to go towards the stairway up to your room.

Halfway on the way to the stairs, you halted your steps, turning around facing your mom.

She looked up from the dishwasher, “Yes?”

You flash her a big grin, “Thanks Mom.”

“You’re welcome, Y/N.”

  
  



End file.
